


How to Get Away With Murder on the Orient Express

by ToBebbanburg



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anyways, Breaking and Entering, M/M, Non-Permanent Character Death, dear agatha christie I'm sorry, obvs, suspect dance moves, theres murder, this whole thing was just because I was hot for Marwan in a train conductors uniform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: The Old Guard follow a mark of theirs onto the Orient Express, planning to kill him before they reach Paris. But they weren't counting on a world class detective also coming on board, and an unexpected murder that 100% wasn't them this time...
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 55
Kudos: 332





	How to Get Away With Murder on the Orient Express

“I still don't think we’re all needed for this.” Bastien sighed as Joe handed him a neatly pressed and folded waiter’s uniform, looking down at it in distate.

“Morse is slippery, and cleverer than you want to give him credit for. He knows someone’s after him, and the more of us working on this the better. We can’t let him make it to Paris alive.” Andy had already changed into her clothes, though her disguise simply consisted of an aviator’s jacket worn over the top of her normal shirt and trousers; she would be posing as a pilot making the journey to Paris in time for the air show.

The job, Joe thought, should be simple. Morse was known in the criminal underworlds across many countries as the ultimate one-man package deal. Blackmail, kidnapping, murder… there was very little the man hadn’t done and wasn’t prepared to do. He had been on the fringes of their attention for a while, but there were always bigger jobs, more important places to be than worrying about one man. Now though, with a job just finishing in Istanbul, one of their contacts had discovered Morse would be taking the Orient Express to Paris at the end of the week. The timing could not have been more perfect. They would board the train along with Morse, and ensure he wouldn’t live to see France.

Bastien and Joe, by virtue of having the most accent-less French, had taken on positions as a waiter and train conductor respectively. Bastien was less than happy with the thought of having to spend the journey pouring champagne for the other passengers, but Joe was rather happy with taking up the role of conductor. For one, unlike Bastien, he actually liked interacting with people. For another, he had seen the way Nicky’s eyes had widened when he had first seen Joe dressed in his new uniform, and _that_ was definitely worth exploring later.

Nicky, or Nicholas Bianchi as he was calling himself for this one job, was posing as a doctor. Bastien had already checked the passenger list- there were no other registered doctors due to board the train, so they hoped that when Nicky ultimately declared Morse dead of natural causes there would be no one to look more closely and realise the truth. He was wearing a horribly ill-fitting tweed jacket that Joe was convinced he had found lying in an alley, but the glasses he had also decided to wear more than made up for it. They drew attention to his eyes, and Joe _loved_ Nicky’s eyes.

“Sébastien, put the damn outfit on and get on the train.” Andy rolled her eyes at Bastien’s reluctance to put the uniform on.

Bastien muttered something about hating getting blood on white clothing, but dutifully snatched up the uniform and went behind the screen set up in the corner of the room to change. When he emerged a few minutes later he appeared as the perfect waiter, if one were only able to look past the scowl that rather ruined the whole look.

“No one say anything.” He growled.

Joe wasn’t sure why he hated it so much: he thought Bastien cleaned up quite well. Yes, the white was a little too… white, but it suited him in a way. He looked across at Nicky, wondering what he thought, and almost laughed. Nicky’s mouth was quirked up ever so slightly, so slight that perhaps only Joe would notice, but it spoke volumes. Nicky was almost certainly planning to spill red wine over Bastien at the first opportunity.

“Right.” Andy stood up, straightening out her jacket as she did. “Joe and Bastien, you leave now. Separate exits. Nicky and I will check out and kill time before we come to the train. No one must work out we know each other: we can’t tip Morse off in any way.”

“Is there at least time for a good-bye kiss?” Joe asked innocently. Andy laughed and waved her hand dismissively, walking away to double check her luggage and giving Joe and Nicky a pretence of privacy. Bastien simply snorted and wished them both luck before he left.

No sooner had Bastien left than Nicky was on Joe, pulling him into a tight embrace and pressing their lips together. There was a hint of desperation in it, as there always was before a mission where they knew they wouldn’t be able to touch, let alone barely even acknowledge each other. Joe’s fingers scrabbled against the horrible tweed as his hands roamed Nicky’s back, as if he had to map it out one final time.

“It’s only three days.” Andy’s wry voice was the only thing that made them pull apart, though neither of them apologised. Nicky had to straighten his glasses, and the simple movement made Joe want to grab him by the lapels and kiss him all over again.

“I’ll see you on the train, doctor.” He said instead, giving Nicky a wink before grabbing his bag and hat and taking his leave.

  
****

Joe was _exhausted_ , and he’d only settled four passengers onto the train so far. Mr and Mrs Marple, a pair of travelling missionaries, had been fine and settled happily into their compartment, but his next two passengers had run him off his feet from the moment they arrived. Countess Dupin, an elegant older woman who wasted no time at all in letting Joe know she was recently divorced, was either woefully unprepared for the train journey or simply liked thinking up tasks to watch him carry out. Joe wasn’t sure why she needed three cushions that were specifically emerald green, but he didn’t want to ask lest she think he was providing an opening for her advances.

The other awkward passenger, one Mr Claes, was apparently a renowned detective. Part of being a renowned detective, he repeatedly told Joe, was that he had an attention for detail that surpassed that of other men, and with that in mind could he please take these scones back to the chef and ask for some that were actually circular.

“He wants circular scones.” Joe told Bastien as he passed the rejected plate across the kitchen counter to him.

“But these are circular.” Bastien pushed the plate back.

“Not enough, apparently.” Joe insisted. Bastien groaned, turning around to convey the new request to the chef in rapid French before picking up one of the rejected scones and jamming it in his mouth.

“These people are the worst.” He mumbled, his mouth full of crumbs. “Like that one. She’s already on her second glass, and we haven’t even left the station yet.” Bastien nodded in the direction of the Countess, who was languishing in the corner of the carriage with her champagne and trying her best to catch the eye of every man who passed her.

“She could be perfect for you.” Joe teased.

He was saved from whatever Bastien’s retort was going to be by the arrival of Andy, who swept into the carriage and made a beeline for the bar.

“Whisky. No rocks.” She told Bastien, not a hint of recognition on her face. Bastien raised an eyebrow at Joe and turned away to sort out the drink.

“Madame. Do you require anything to help you settle in for the journey?” Joe asked Andy, plastering the biggest fake smile onto his face.

“Just the whisky.” She replied, not even looking at him.

Joe nodded once, respectfully, then headed back to the platform to see if any other passengers had arrived. There was no one but a Mrs Barnaby, a governess heading back to England in search of new employment, and she was thankfully settled without any fuss. When Joe stepped out of the train again after escorting her to the restaurant car, he quickly scanned the station, his heart skipping a beat when he focused on the pair of men walking towards the Express.

Morse was talking with Nicky. Or rather, at Nicky, as it didn’t seem as though Morse was letting him get a single word in edgewise. To Nicky’s immense credit, he didn’t seem uncomfortable or on edge at all, though the mere sight of the man standing so close to his Nicolò was enough to set Joe’s teeth on edge. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, then walked over to the two of them.

“Gentlemen.” He said pleasantly. “Welcome to the Orient Express. Can I show you both to your rooms?”

“Please.” Nicky answered before Morse could, the sound of his voice cooling Joe’s slowly simmering anger. “I take it our luggage has been transported all right?”

“All ready and waiting for you.” Joe replied smoothly, leading the two men up the stairs and into the train. He showed Nicky to his room first, Nicky giving him a smile that only Joe could see as he closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with Morse.

He could kill him now, Joe thought. He had a knife strapped to his leg, or he could strangle Morse as soon as he stepped foot into his room. As Morse turned his back to him to enter his bedroom Joe’s fingers almost itched to reach out and end it. But he had to stick to the plan. They couldn’t cause a scene now, not when they were still in the station. The cleaner this was, the better, no matter how much Joe hated to see this man still walking and breathing.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Joe forced himself to ask, thankful that Morse didn’t turn to look at him.

“Yes. I will take all my meals here in my room. You will not disturb me, nor allow the other guests to disturb me. I will take a double brandy at 11pm, and a coffee at 7:30am on the dot tomorrow.” Morse listed off his demands on his fingers, then kicked his leg out behind him to connect with the door and shut it in Joe’s face.

So Morse was indeed worried someone was after him. No matter: they had all expected as much, and the fact he had ordered a drink was a welcome bonus as it meant Bastien would be able to slip a sleeping draught into his evening brandy, making Andy’s job easier.

From down at the front of the train the whistle sounded. With everyone on board, it was time to depart. Joe wandered back to the restaurant car as the train lurched into motion, and the Orient Express started her journey to Paris.

****

“Monsieur?”

Joe yawned and stood up from his chair. It was almost midnight, and he was waiting for the last of the passengers to settle down for the night before he gave the signal to Andy. Unfortunately, _certain_ people just refused to stay inside their rooms.

“Monsieur, I wondered if I could trouble you for a glass of water? I cannot sleep without one. Half full, if you please, exactly.” Claes had poked his head out of his room to call down to Joe.

“Of course.” Joe straightened his cap and set off down the train to the restaurant. Hopefully, that would be the last interruption of the night. He wondered about slipping another sleeping draught into Claes’ water to get him to stay asleep: the detective was in the adjoining room to Morse, so if anyone were to hear Andy slip inside for the kill it’d be him.

Bastien was still in the kitchen when Joe made it down. He’d poured himself a brandy of his own and unbuttoned his waistcoat, lounging on one of the well cushioned chairs. He looked up with interest when Joe arrived.

“Done already?” he asked.

Joe just shook his head in response, rummaging in the kitchen for a glass before filling it exactly halfway with water.

“Would it be noticeable in water?” he asked Bastien once the glass was full. He didn’t need to say what.

“Very.” Bastien said, much to Joe’s disappointment. “Who’s it for? That Belgian detective?”

“He won’t sleep without one apparently.”

“Well, here’s hoping that water sends him out like a light.” Bastien lifted his own glass to Joe in salute as he made his way back down the corridor.

Claes gratefully took the water and finally, after another half hour had passed, it seemed like everyone was finally asleep. Not wanting to risk waking anyone else up by knocking on Andy’s door, Joe slipped a napkin half under her door. A second later she pulled it through from the other side, and Joe went back to his chair to hold his breath and wait.

After a horrible few minutes of nothing, the napkin was pushed back under the door into the corridor with something scribbled on it.

_Get Nicky. Restaurant. Now._

No sooner had Joe read the note than Andy slipped out of her bedroom, and with only a brief glance at Joe silently made her way down the corridor. There was blood on the cuff of her sleeve, he noticed, and he wondered what had gone wrong: they had agreed no blood should be spilt in order to pass it off as a heart attack.

Joe knew Nicky wouldn’t be sleeping yet, still waiting to see if their plan had worked, so he knew he would be able to use the same napkin under the door trick rather than knocking again. Sure enough, Nicky opened the door as if he had been waiting for that exact moment, his eyes wide and alert. Joe held up a single finger to his lips, and they set off after Andy as quietly as they could. Once inside the restaurant car Joe locked the door, ensuring they were all alone.

“Andy, what happened?” Nicky asked once they had the all clear, his eyes picking up the blood on her sleeve. Andy was fine, she always would be, but he still sounded so concerned.

“Someone got to him first. He was already dead.” Andy told them, her voice grim. “Stabbed, just once.”

“But that’s good, right? Someone did our job for us.” Bastien said.

“But who. And why?” Joe asked.

“Does it matter?” Bastien countered. “We wanted that bastard dead, and now he is.”

“I agree. We should just forget it.” Nicky sank down onto one of the chairs and closed his eyes. He wasn’t being dismissive, Joe knew. Only thoughtful.

“Agreed. But we have to be careful. That detective is bound to get involved in this and we _were_ planning to kill him after all. He can’t suspect us.” Andy said.

“You might want to clean up that shirt of yours in that case.” Joe looked pointedly at Andy’s sleeve.

“I’ll do it.” Bastien offered, then looked offended at the surprised looks everyone gave him. “I’m already having to clean one of my shirts tonight after _somebody_ spilt red wine over me earlier. May as well wash another while I’m at it.”

Nicky snorted, and didn’t look even remotely apologetic.

“We say nothing tonight. Joe, you’ll raise the alarm tomorrow morning. Nicky… I don’t need to tell you that the pretending he had a heart attack plan is out of the window.” Andy stripped her shirt off without preamble and handed it to Bastien, who was dutifully keeping his eyes fixed away from her. “Try and get some sleep, and _act natural_.”

****

“A murder?!” Mrs Marple just had the time to gasp the words out before she fainted into her husband’s arms. Joe had decided it would be best to gather all the passengers in the restaurant car to break the news, but he was regretting that decision as chaos soon spread from one end of the carriage to the other.

“But who would kill him? None of us even know him?”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Are we safe?”

The passengers all shouted and talked over each other with varying degrees of distress. Joe studied each of their faces, trying to see if he could determine if anyone was acting: they all seemed genuine to him, apart from Mrs Marple. The fainting was a little bit of an overreaction, he thought, though Nicky was performing marvellously as a doctor, already bending down to check her pulse and helping her husband move her into a recovery position. He probably would have done the same even if he weren’t posing as a medical man.

“Monsieur, if you’ll allow me.” Claes had appeared at Joe’s elbow, and was straightening his moustache in preparation for whatever it was he was planning.

“By all means.” Joe gestured for Claes to step forward.

“Madames and Monsieurs, I respectfully ask for your cooperation in this matter. I know you are all scared, and I know you must have many questions. However, I can assure you, that though I myself am not a man of the law I am a seasoned detective and can, at least, put your mind at rest as to who the murderer is.”

Everyone fell silent as Claes spoke, and Joe’s eyes instinctively darted over to Nicky. How could Claes know? Unless he had found the real murderer.

“There are several clues I have found, that all point towards the same culprit. The first: there were traces of blood along the corridor between Mr Morse’s room and this restaurant, suggesting the murderer fled here. The second: Doctor Bianchi here tells me, and I have verified myself, that the victim was killed with a long, deep cut across the chest. Such a cut could only be caused by a professional knife, such as one found in a well-stocked kitchen. The third, and the one that reveals who our murderer is: as I was sitting down for my breakfast this morning I noticed our friendly waiter, Mr Sébastien Prost, retrieving a recently washed white shirt from where it had been drying. A shirt that would have to be washed clean to remove all traces of Mr Morse’s blood from it.”

Claes delivered his speech with a smug air, his hands clasped behind his back. Joe was stunned. Nicky was stunned. Andy looked like she was immensely enjoying everything.

“Monsieur? I would suggest you restrain Mr Prost and keep him confined until we reach Paris.” Claes turned to Joe as the other passengers began murmuring amongst themselves.

“But what of motive?” Nicky stood up. “I accidentally spilt wine over Mr Prost yesterday, giving him good reason to wash his shirt. And perhaps the murderer stole a knife from the kitchen, instead of coming from the kitchen themselves. The evidence is weak at best, and you cannot hold this man without motive.”

“The fourth clue,” Claes interrupted, sounding impatient, “is that Mr Morse appeared to have not even noticed an intruder entering his room, suggesting he was in a deep sleep, perhaps even in a drugged state. Who better to drug him than the man who prepares our drinks?”

That revelation hit rather too close to home, and suddenly the cries of the other passengers drowned out Nicky’s protestations.

“I found the man most disagreeable anyways. There was something terribly shifty about him.” Countess Dupin agreed.

“He has been rather stand-offish this whole journey.” Mr Marple said, violently fanning his wife in an attempt to bring her round to consciousness.

"Here here." Andy said, rather unhelpfully.

“Then we are agreed.” Claes nodded at them all, his moustache bobbing. “I am not a physical man, but I presume between the rest of you you will be able to restrain the man.”

“I’ll do it.” Andy stood up and rolled her sleeves up.

“And I’ll help.” Joe said hurriedly. Andy cornering Bastien on her own was likely to raise even more questions.

Together they exited the restaurant into the kitchen, where Bastien was leaning out of the window with a cigarette, blissfully unaware of the accusations of murder.

“Just go along with this.” Andy muttered to him before punching him right in the gut. “Murderer!” she shouted, for the benefit of the chef, yanking Bastien’s arms behind him into a lock.

“Get off me, woman.” He snarled as he struggled against her, and Joe quickly stepped in to help restrain him. Together they manhandled Bastian back through the restaurant, past the astounded passengers, and into his small bedroom.

“Can you at least drop me off a bottle of whisky.” He asked them quietly as he happily climbed onto his bed, then added a loud cry of “I’m innocent dammit!” as he made himself comfortable.

“Sure.” Andy promised, then slammed the door for good measure. She tossed her fringe out of her eyes then turned to Joe with a bemused expression on her face.

“Well that was unexpected.”

****

“I’ve been trying to figure out who the real murderer is.” Nicky said in a low voice as Joe snuck into his room when all the passengers were engaged in a post-lunch slump.

He was still wearing the glasses, and had developed a habit of pushing them back up his nose whenever he was about to say something long. Joe had been watching him do it all day and it had soon become one of his favourite things. Countess Dupin had had to call his name three times to get his attention earlier, as he had stood at his station and watched Nicky from across the room. Nicky wasn’t much better: he had only recently stopped walking into table edges every time he saw Joe in his conductor’s uniform. Joe thought he might hold onto it once they reached Paris.

“The Countess, it turns out, recently lost most of her latest husband’s fortune betting in one of Morse’s underground gambling rings. She thinks she was cheated somehow, that she entered games she could never have won. Of course, that could be the champagne talking.” Nicky counted her off on one of his fingers absently, moving to hold his middle finger as he moved onto the next suspect. “Mrs Barnaby was, until recently, governess to the Martin family.”

“Who Morse extorted until they were penniless and on the streets.” Joe finished for Nicky. They’d all heard the story. The older Martin daughter was rumoured to have entered Morse’s employment in an attempt to save her family from debt, but had turned up dead only a few weeks later. No one knew where the rest of the family were.

“The Marples,” Nicky moved on to his ring finger, “have both been married before. They mentioned being brought together by a shared grief, and Mrs Marple’s first husband was one Henry Pattison.”

Joe sucked in a breath. Henry Pattison had been one of Morse’s earlier victims, the poor man found in pieces that had been posted to each of his relatives.

“Detective Claes…” Nicky held onto his little finger. “There’s something not right about him. He keeps referencing cases he’s worked on, murders he’s solved, but I’ve never heard of any of them.”

“He was rather quick to point the blame at Bastien.” Joe thought it over. “But what would he possibly have against Morse?”

“That I don’t know.” Nicky fell backwards onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Joe didn’t hesitate in joining him, their arms lying flush together from shoulder to hand, ending in their fingers wrapped around each other. It was comforting, this simple touch, and helped Joe to think. The feeling of Nicky’s skin against his, the faint warmth he could swear he could feel even through their combined layers of clothing… it helped to ground him.

“I have a key to Claes’ room. I can search it, see if I can find anything.” Joe said after a while.

“Give it to me.” Nicky said. “It will be suspicious if you are missing for too long. You have even been with me too long now.” He added dryly, though he made no effort to remove his hand from Joe’s.

“Nonsense. My job is to make sure everyone has a comfortable journey. That includes you.” Joe replied. He was enjoying this quiet moment between them, thoughts about murderers aside, and decided the other passengers could cope another few minutes without him fetching them blankets and aspirin and reports on the weather.

“Is there anything I can do to make your stay more agreeable, doctor?” he said in French, shifting so that he could prop himself up on an elbow to better look at Nicky. Nicky caught on in an instant.

“I think there is, Monsieur Conductor.” he replied smoothly, taking his glasses off and carefully placing them on the table beside the bed. “You see, I left someone behind in Istanbul, and I find myself missing the touch of another man. Is that something you can help with?”

“How terrible. Was he very handsome?” Joe asked, letting his free hand trace up Nicky’s front, pausing at each button on his jacket to undo it until he could push the coat completely off Nicky’s chest.

“The most handsome man I have ever met in my life.”

“I’m afraid I will be a poor substitute for such a man.” Joe said, his hand now slowly tracing the line of Nicky’s jaw.

“Perhaps.” Nicky said with a slight smile, then reached out to pull Joe towards him.

His lips were warm, and Joe could still taste the traces of the wine he had drunk with his lunch on his tongue. He let Nicky lick into his mouth, enjoying how he would occasionally pull back to suck on Joe’s lower lip, which never failed to send electricity sparking through his whole body. He was breathless when Nicky eventually broke the kiss, though not so without breath that he could not teasingly ask: “Will I do?”

“You’ll do just fine.” Nicky said approvingly, moving in for another kiss.

They had barely touched when a sharp knock sounded on the door.

“Doctor Bianchi?” Andy called out.

Nicky swore and sat up, grabbing his glasses from the table as he did. Joe shuffled to the opposite side of the room, hopefully out of sight when the door was opened.

“Doctor, forgive me. I’m trying to find the conductor- have you seen him?” Andy asked pointedly, leaving no room to doubt that she knew Joe was in the room.

“I think he’s down in the luggage carriage.” Nicky lied without a hint of emotion in his voice, more for the sake of anyone passing by than for Andy herself. There was no fooling her.

“I shall look for him there, then.” Andy said loudly as Nicky closed the door on her. He looked sheepish as he turned back to Joe, who sighed and picked up his hat from where it had been knocked onto the floor at some point.

“So much for that idea.” He said sadly, pulling out the ring of keys from his pocket and searching until he found the one for Claes’ room. “Here. I’ll try and keep him occupied.”

He stepped forward for a brief kiss then left the carriage, heading down to where the luggage was stored. Andy was waiting for him, sitting atop a stack of suitcases.

“You would make a terrible conductor.” She told him disapprovingly. “Mrs Marple has quite misplaced her smelling salts and needs them to be retrieved from her suitcase.” She tapped the case she was sitting on for emphasis, then held up the salts in her hand.

“You didn’t need me at all.” Joe accused, and she laughed.

“Joe, I know you, and I know Nicky. Come on, we’re halfway there. Keep it together a little longer.”

Joe grunted and moved to sit on another stack of suitcases, casting a quick look around to make sure no one else was around.

“Nicky thinks Claes is hiding something.” He said in a hushed voice. “He’s going to search his room later.”

Andy nodded. “I think he might be right. He jumped onto Bastien far too quickly.”

“And if he is the murderer?”

“Then we talk to him. Hell, we probably do nothing so long as he promises not to turn Bastien over to the police. We just need him back with as little drama as possible.” Andy tossed the smelling salts from hand to hand as she talked.

“And how is our dear Sébastien?” Joe asked.

Andy gasped in fake shock. “Are you suggesting I would associate with a suspected felon?” she said in a horribly accurate impersonation of Countess Dupin. “He’s fine.” She said in her normal voice. “I crept in through the window to talk to him earlier, and he was asleep with his bottle of whiskey. I think he’s quite pleased with how this has turned out.”

They were all immortal, of course, but Andy was the only one of them who viewed climbing in and out of the windows of a moving train as if it were on par with more conventional methods of travelling. That was why she had been given the room next to Morse: none of the others had especially fancied clinging onto the outside of the Express as it hurtled through the countryside.

“The doors.” Joe suddenly had a realisation. “The rooms are paired up, with interlocking doors. Morse’s room could technically be accessed from Claes’.”

He thought some more about it. There had been no signs of a forced entry when he had gone into Morse’s room earlier, and he doubted Claes would have taken the window approach. He must have picked the lock.

“Lock-picks. That’s what Nicky needs to look for.” He said aloud to Andy. “You check his luggage, I’ll go and tell Nicky. Unless he has them on his person, we’ll find them.”

“You’re quite the detective yourself.” Andy said with a grin as she jumped off the Marples’ luggage and set about searching for Claes’.

Joe left her to it, heading back along to the lodging carriage. There was no answer when he knocked on Nicky’s door, so he moved on to the restaurant. Still no Nicky.

Confused, he headed back to the bedrooms, and tried Nicky’s door again. He looked down at the floor and noticed there were scuff marks in the carpet that hadn’t been there before. Scuff marks that led from Nicky’s room to Claes’… or perhaps the other way round.

Joe’s instinct was to break down Nicky’s door, but he luckily remembered he had the key that would open it. He fumbled for his bundle of keys, seemingly taking forever to find the right one, and when he finally found it he pushed the door open with such force it slammed against the wall. Inside was Nicky’s body.

“Nicolò.” He breathed, only just having the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind him before rushing to his lover’s side. Something had been smashed into the back of his head, his hair matted and wet with blood. Nicky was awake, thank god, though he was slow to react to Joe’s touch.

“Nicky, tesoro. Come back to me.” Joe pulled Nicky’s body up so that he was sat between Joe’s legs, leaning against his chest.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Nicky reassured him, though his voice was still rough. He patted Joe’s leg reassuringly, but Joe didn’t relax his grip on him in the slightest.

“I was right about Claes.” He told Joe, sounding more smug than a man who had just died had any right to. “I found some lock-picks in his bag, right before he came in and found me. He must’ve-”

“Entered Morse’s room through their adjoining door. I had the same thought.”

They sat there in silence for a while, until their breathing slowed back to normal and Joe felt like he could finally unwrap his arms from Nicky.

“What do we do now?” Nicky asked him, plucking at the blood-soaked collar of his shirt.

“ _You_ do nothing, you’re dead now. You can go and keep Bastien company.” Joe joked, for want of a better answer. The truth was, he wasn’t sure what they should do. Claes killing Morse was one thing, a good thing even, but killing Nicky… that needed to be punished.

“You shouldn’t hurt him.” Nicky said, sensing Joe’s thoughts. “He was scared, defensive. I don’t think he even meant to kill me he just… panicked.”

“I know.” Joe sighed. “I know. But he has to pay.” He added.

“Get him to turn himself in to the police in Paris instead of Bastien. That will be enough.”

Joe’s heart swelled with love for his Nicolò at that, willing to forgive even the man who had tried to kill him.

“All right.” He agreed. “But at least let me get one good punch in first.”

“One.” Nicky laughed lightly, and turned around to press a light kiss to Joe’s lips. “You may have one.”

****

Joe decided not to tell the other passengers about Nicky’s “death”. Not yet, anyway. He would tell them in the morning the next day, once Claes had been dealt with: neither he nor Andy wanted to risk further turmoil and chaos by letting people think there was yet another killer on the loose. Instead, they carried on as if nothing had changed, and to Joe’s immense relief Claes didn’t step a foot out of his room all afternoon.

It was night when they struck, well passed midnight. In addition to his one allowed punch, Joe had also argued his point to make their confrontation with Claes as dramatic as possible. He had to take pleasure in the small things.

They were all stood outside Claes’ bedroom; all except Bastien, that was, who was presumably still happily locked up in his room with a bottle of whisky and a pile of novels pilfered from one of the Marples’ suitcases. Joe slowly unlocked the door to Claes’ room, then stepped back to allow Nicky to stand in the doorway. With a nod from Andy, Nicky kicked the door open so hard it slammed against the door, and Claes sat bolt upright at the noise. On cue, Andy switched the lights in the hall on and off, creating a painful flickering effect around the silhouette of Nicky in the door way.

“You!” Claes gasped, and pulled his bed covers up around him as he tried to shuffle away from Nicky. “I… but… you can’t be.”

Nicky said nothing, and didn’t move from his spot in the doorway. Joe couldn’t see his face, but he knew the look Nicky would be giving him: the same “I’m not angry, just disappointed” look that could make even Andy feel ashamed. It didn’t disappoint when used on Claes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The man sobbed. “I didn’t mean to, you found me and I panicked and I didn’t mean to, you understand? It was only supposed to be Morse, it was only ever meant to be Morse. Please, leave me be, spirit.”

Andy switched the lights off at that, plunging the carriage into darkness once more, and Nicky silently sidestepped out of view of Claes, letting Joe slip into his place. When Andy turned the lights back on, Joe was stood over Claes’ bed, his scimitar in hand and pointed straight at Claes’ throat.

“We know what you’ve done.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper for maximum effect. “And you will pay for it. When we arrive in Paris, you will allow us to turn you into the authorities and spend the rest of your years behind bars. Yes?”

“Yes, yes.” Claes agreed, shaken out of his wits. “Please, please don’t hurt me. It was just a job, I didn’t mean for anyone else to get involved.”

“I know. And that’s why you’re only getting this.” Joe sheathed his scimitar.

“Getting wh-”

Joe punched him, and Claes slumped back against the wall unconscious.

“I think that went well.” Andy remarked dryly. “Do you think we should let Sébastien out now?”

****

The remaining passengers were, understandably, rather shocked by the turn of events when Joe did his best to explain everything to them the next day. Mrs Marple fainted again. Countess Dupin demanded compensation, though for what, exactly, she wasn’t clear on. Mrs Barnaby simply ordered a glass of gin from the recently reinstated Bastien, then retired to her room with the order to keep them coming until they reached Paris.

“A good idea, actually.” Andy said, addressing the other passengers. “We should all stay in our rooms until the train arrives.” She made a show of leaving and retiring to her bedroom, prompting the others to follow suit, whereupon she reappeared, Nicky in tow.

“And now, we can enjoy the rest of our journey in peace.” She announced, grabbing the keys from Joe’s belt and locking the door to their carriage, before leaning over the bar and retrieving a bottle of champagne. “Who wants a drink?”

They all wanted -needed- a drink, and Joe gladly took the glass offered to him, raising it in silent cheers along with the others. He sank onto the nearest couch and took his conductor’s cap off, glad to be free of it. Nicky may like it, but he felt like it was beginning to squeeze his head.

Bastien was trawling through the pile of records next to the gramophone, tossing most of them aside with snorts of distaste before finally finding one that didn’t seem to offend him. He placed it on the turntable with a grin, offering his arm out to Andy in a gesture of mock chivalry as the music started up. Andy rolled her eyes but took his arm, allowing him to sweep her around the carriage, only just managing to avoid the furniture.

Joe didn’t recognise the song, but the fast tempo and large amounts of brass made it clear it was modern. Swing music. Perfect. They both loved swing, had done since the 20s. It had been the music of the counter culture then, music made by black men and danced to by those who felt they didn’t quite belong. It took Joe back to the clubs they had visited in Berlin barely a decade ago, where they had felt accepted, where they had felt free. It was there that Nicky had learnt he loved to dance, and where Joe had learnt that he loved to dance with him.

“Shall we?” Nicky drained his glass then set it down, holding both of his hands out to Joe in invitation.

He couldn’t help the laugh that left him as Nicky pulled him up and close to his, effortlessly leading him through the steps of a messy shag as they danced around Andy and Bastien. Dancing was second only to sex in how close to Nicky he felt. Their bodies fell in sync with each other, both coming together to move to the same beat at the same time, Joe’s body responding on instinct with every slight push and pull from Nicky. They weren’t technically perfect, by any means, but they were fast and they were enthusiastic and they had _fun_.

While Nicky and Joe were content to dance to enjoy the music and each other’s company, Andy and Bastien seemed to view dancing as a competition, taking it in turns to lead each other into a series of increasingly technical and daring moves. Nicky had to pull Joe out of the way sharpish as Andy sent Bastien spinning out towards them, and they stopped dancing altogether when Bastien held out his arms below his legs and Andy dived through them, using her momentum to help seamlessly lift her back onto her feet.

“They’ve been practising.” Nicky remarked as Andy picked Bastien up and flipped him over her shoulder, narrowly missing dropping him onto one of the plush couches by barely an inch. Joe whistled with appreciation at the move.

“They have indeed.” He agreed. “Show-offs.” He added, making Nicky snort.

They watched Andy and Bastien dance a little while longer, until the dancing resulted in a smashed glass and devolved into an argument over whose fault it was.

“I think that’s our cue to leave.” Nicky laughed, as Bastien broke another glass in a strange attempt to prove that he hadn’t broken the first.

“I think you’re right.” Joe stood up and stretched, putting his conductor’s cap back on and slipping back into French. “Dr Bianchi… can I show you to your room?”

Nicky studied him for a moment, then grinned, pulling his glasses out of his trouser pocket and putting them on.

“Lead on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look everyone the shag is a legit type of dance, god, get your minds out the gutter
> 
> And thanks to Softestark for helping me decide what Andy's reaction to being asked to dance would be!


End file.
